At 10:00 p.m. the lights went out in the house. Early to bed, early to rise.
Marsh cursed softly, started the Honda and drove into the darkness of Wildwood. Street after street, lights were going out as the sidewalks rolled up in this dinky town. Abigail wasn’t on any of them. She wasn’t sitting on a bench in the town’s sole park. He again passed the convenience store, where the same blonde clerk would close by eleven—nothing in Wildwood stayed open all night except the roadhouse by the interstate. He drove slowly a few streets over, into the business district, and parked far out in the grocery store lot, where he could watch the doors unobserved as the workers inside worked the closing, in case Abigail was waiting there.
It was worrying, not knowing where she was.
Marsh thought about going home to check the answering machine. Maybe she had called. When the lights in the grocery began to flick off bank by bank, he pulled out into the street again.
The house looked no different from when he’d left hours ago, clay still ground into the carpet, empty popcorn bags half spilling from the kitchen trash can, the living room in disarray. Marsh checked every room, but he’d known the moment he opened the door that Abigail wasn’t there. The house had a different feel when she was in it. His radar always seemed to know where she was, what she was doing, and he was discomfited now by her utter absence.
Marsh went to her bedroom door and opened it slowly. Her fragrance, light and fresh—something like clean cotton, the scent of baby shampoo and a citrus undertone—lingered in the room like a ghost. The bed was made, the corners of the bedclothes sharp and crisp, the edges hanging even. He liked that Abigail was tidy.
He flicked on the light and there was Gary, grinning at him from the wood-framed photograph on the dresser. He remembered that photo from the funeral, where it had stood on a table at the front of the room near the casket, a single spray of bloodred gladiolus in the vase next to the frame. Gary looked mockingly happy in the photo—or maybe it had been Marsh’s own tainted happiness reflected back at him. Marsh wasn’t happy his brother was dead, but it meant the field to Abigail was clear, and it had given Marsh the easy way inside her guard. If Gary had simply not been Abigail’s choice... Marsh fought down the regret. It didn’t matter now. It wasn’t something he could fix.
But still, everything roiled inside Marsh. Too many emotions fought for supremacy. Anger. Jealousy. Anxiety. Desperation. Love. Fear. Worry. Fury.
He lunged forward and knocked Gary onto his face on Abigail’s dresser, satisfied by the ominous crack from the glass. He didn’t want his brother smiling at him as he began yanking open drawers and cabinets, looking for a clue to where she might have gone.
At midnight he sat next to the telephone, where the answering machine was as dark as his spirit. His stomach was hot with acid. He knew he should have something to eat, even as late as it was, but Abigail wasn’t here to cook, and he was sick of dealing with the kitchen and the clients. He’d found nothing of use in Abigail’s room, just box after box of mementos, Gary everywhere. A wedding album. Vacation pictures. Letters, cards. There was even a small bundle of cards Marsh had sent Abigail in the first weeks after Gary’s death, cheery greetings, short notes, all filled with the helpful brotherly sentiments of a man supporting his sister-in-law through her grief.
Even now, after the months Marsh had been living with her and begun to mold her to his ways, he was sure Abigail had no true understanding of the depth of his passion for her.
He had loved her before she married Gary, but he’d driven back his need with a ruthless will once she’d made her choice and said her vows to his brother. But fate had given Marsh a second chance, and he wasn’t going to let her—his very
life
—slip out of his hands again. She was his.
It was just that simple.
He would do what it took to keep her. She’d learn, given time, where she belonged. Together they would erase the past, erase Gary, and Marsh would fill that space. He could hardly wait for the night when she would come to him, penitent and bare, and he would punish her only a little for delaying his ultimate possession of her for so many months. Punishment would make her utter surrender delicious. Marsh liked the taste of Abigail’s tears.
He couldn’t think of anyplace else to look for her. He sat, fists clenched, staring straight ahead.
At last he picked up the telephone and dialed.
“Central Sumter Regional Hospital,” said a woman who answered on the first ring.
“Yeah...hi, I’m...uh, not sure who I need to speak to, but my...my wife is missing, and it’s late and I’m really concerned that...”
My wife.
It would happen. She was that in all but name already, wasn’t she? Even if he’d not yet slept with her in the biblical sense, they shared a house, a life, physical intimacy of a sort. He scowled a little. It would help if there weren’t so many pictures of Gary around, looking down at him from the walls. Maybe he should take Abigail away—maybe a hotel, without Gary’s eyes watching every move he made, would help him consummate their relationship at last. Show Abigail what she did to him, how much he wanted her. Loved her.
Needed
her.
“What’s your wife’s name?”
“Abigail. Abigail McMurray. She’s got long brown hair, gray eyes. She should’ve been home hours ago.”
“Hold on, sir, while I transfer you to the proper department. Someone will help you. Try not to worry.”
There was a silence of perhaps thirty seconds. His heart thumped hard in his chest. Was she there? Had something happened to her, or was the sneaky bitch there to report him for the bruises, the ones he gave her for not holding still enough while he finished taking what pleasure he could—the pleasure she owed him—at her breasts.
“Sir?” It was a different voice, another woman. “Mr. McMurray?”
“Yes?” He tried to keep the pathetic eagerness out of his voice.
“We show no one by that name has been admitted to Regional today.”
The knot in his gut eased. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“You’re wel—”
Marsh hung up on her. He didn’t need her now, and he didn’t have the patience for stupid courtesies.
He needed a drink. Something to help him think more clearly, unwind the tension in his strong, stocky body.
Marsh went to the kitchen and used a key to open the cupboard where they kept the liquor. Everything had to be locked away, or the clients would get hold of it, ruin it, cause trouble. When he had Abigail back, it would be more than time to make a change. Get the hell out of this crappy little town. Jacksonville had so much more to offer the two of them. He could start off at his old job again—he was sure he’d be welcomed back—and Abigail could keep house.
The bottle of rye was lower by more than a couple of fingers when he put his glass down on the counter and rasped his palm over his stubbled cheeks and chin. Abigail wasn’t with friends. She wasn’t at the stores. She wasn’t in the hospital.
That only left the cops, didn’t it?
Bitch.
Chapter 5
T
en minutes into her story, when Cade tilted the beer bottle toward her again, this time Abby took it, swallowing down the slightly fizzy, hoppy lager in large gulps. The beer was getting warm, and there wasn’t enough in the bottle to do more than take the edge off, but in her agitated, hyperaware state she could feel it hitting her bloodstream in just a couple of minutes. She tried not to think of putting her mouth where his had just been—there was something unquestionably intimate in the action, as if she had committed to trusting him. She didn’t want to examine her actions or motives too closely just now; everything was too unsettled, and she knew well the danger of making decisions under duress.
“Sounds like things started out just fine, friendly and all. Helpful when you needed it most.” Cade got up again and walked to the truck. Her eyes followed him in the gloom, watching his lean figure. The fire lit him from behind, revealing the fit of his jeans—not too loose, but not too tight, straight-leg jeans that moved with him instead of in spite of him. The orange light also brought out the blued steel of his gun, riding in his waistband. She heard him open the cooler, and the clink of bottles. He came slowly back to the table, his gaze meeting hers, and she realized Cade had let Roy Lewis go. Cade was playing her like a violin, and even though she resented him for it, even if she was falling for his cop line, it felt so good—so boil-lancingly, painfully good—to tell it at last.
Cade sat next to her, closer than he had before. He twisted off the caps and handed her one of the beers. He took a couple of long swigs, looking into the fire. “Go on. Marsh was helpful, pleasant. He was Gary’s brother, and you needed help with your day care business. But you couldn’t keep steady help, even with the agency looking for staff. Why d’you think
that was, Abby?”
“We’ve got to let her go, Abigail. I caught her looking through Rosemary’s wallet.”
“Oh, no, surely she didn’t, Marsh. She’s so good with them, so kind and always gentle—”
“Lots of people talk a good line. Janine got inside our guard. We’re just lucky we found out now, before she did real damage to someone, or to our business reputation. I should have looked into her background more carefully. I’m sorry, Abigail. It won’t happen again.”
So Janine had gone. Abby fired the woman herself. Marsh gave her the words to say. “We’re going to have to let you go, Janine. We wish you all the best, but we’re looking for a more experienced caregiver.”
A few weeks later, the woman who had taken Janine’s place resigned on her own, citing personal reasons.
The third try was not the charm—the assistant they hired didn’t come to work after the first week, and Abby had to call her house and leave a message that she would mail the first and only paycheck to the address she had on file.
They’d all been females, hadn’t they? Abby wondered for a moment what might have happened had she wanted to hire a male, but Marsh had helped her screen the applicants and she’d been guided by his advice when it came to hiring.
The answer startled her with its inescapable logic, when it came. How had she not seen it months ago? How could she have been so blinded, so distracted, that she wouldn’t notice a trend like that in her own business? “Marsh. Marsh must have...done something. Run them all off. Lied to them, lied to me. I don’t know.”
“Why do you think he’d do that?” He turned to look at her, and she was surprised to discover she could still see the blue of his eyes, even in the darkness, lit by the dimming glow of the fire. “Tell me that, Abby.”
“Because...because he didn’t want anyone finding out about him. About
us.
”
“Is there an
us,
Abby?”
She wanted Cade to stop ending every question with her name. It made her squirm like a bug on a pin, it never let her relax. She had no respite from him, not even for a moment.
Is there an
us,
Abby?
Yes.
But no.
Hell no.
But yes, in a horrible way, there was an
us.
She and Marsh were linked, through his brutality and her own fear and inaction. Two deformed halves of a twisted, terrible whole. He had broken her to fit him, and she had done nothing to stop him. The shame rose afresh.
“Shut up,” she whispered. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” The words rose to a shriek at the end. “Just take me to jail. That’s what you want. Take me to jail for stealing your truck. Get it over with! Go ahead and arrest me, because I’m done telling you my dirty secrets. I’m done talking. I know you’re a cop. Arrest me.”
Cade’s hand shot out and caught in her ponytail, forcing her to look at him. “I don’t need you to talk anymore. I know this story. I’ve heard it a hundred times. Marsh wormed his way into your life. You needed him, and he was there. He told you how difficult it was for him, and how much you should appreciate him, didn’t he, Abby? He told you how hard he worked to make time for you and the day care, told you how needy you were. And maybe he needed a little money to help you out, or maybe you even put him on the bank account. Little by little, he took it all.” Cade shook her. “Everything. Your money. Your house. Hell, has to have been your car, too, or you wouldn’t have wanted that heap I’m driving. All of it. Am I right, Abby?”
The silence was full of the song of crickets and cicadas, the soft noises of the river only feet away, something small rustling in the oak leaves that dotted the sand of the campsite. Mort, on the other side of the fire out of the drifting smoke, got to his feet and went to investigate.
Cade put his face closer to hers, and his next words were soft, almost loving. “Somewhere in there, he took you, too. Your pride. Your self-worth. Your independence. You, Abby.
You.
Come on. Just admit it to yourself.”
There were always more tears. Always. Even in her fury, there was misery. She felt them rising in her eyes, burning like never before, a hot and stinging tide. And still she stared at Cade, hating him for his knowledge, hating him for making her say it.
“When did he start hitting you? Was it before or after he screwed you the first time, Abby?”
“I’m—going to—throw up—”
“Oh, no, you’re not. You’re not wasting my good steak and beer. Come on, Abby. Say it. He hit you first when...?” He wouldn’t let go of her, and she couldn’t look away. His eyes compelled the truth, and oh, God, she wanted to tell him, wanted to say it, wanted to scream it until her throat burst, but she couldn’t.
“Before or after?” he pressed. “Just tell me. It’s so much easier if you just tell me.” Now his voice was soft, wheedling, promising comfort if she’d only give in, tell him what he wanted to hear.
He was no different from Marsh.
“After! After, all right, after, he found a bill that was... It wasn’t late, it had only been in the basket two days. It was after, after! After!” She screamed at him, her fist flying off her legs to pound uselessly against his shoulder. Cade leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes closing, shutting away their penetrating, all-knowing blue, releasing her from that unbearable scrutiny. His hand cupped the back of her head, and when her scream of rage and humiliation turned into desperate, wrenching sobs, he pulled her across his lap and into his arms.
“It’s over,” he whispered. “Over. I’ve got you.”
“You
bastard.
” But she burrowed hard into the strong curve of his neck and shoulder, where he smelled of sweat and disinfectant, and faintly of blood from his head wound, and maleness, and she wept in his arms for the second time that day. Her tears were jagged, made of broken glass, born in the darkest part of her, that shameful place deep within where she had hidden her inadequacy from the world.
His big frame shook with what had to be amusement. “I’ve been called worse, Abigail McMurray. By better criminals than you.”
* * *
Cade knew he shouldn’t have pushed her so hard, but now the scab was off, and he wasn’t sorry. He had his answers. His curiosity was satisfied for the moment. What he wasn’t prepared for was the depth of his fury toward Abby’s abuser. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t really wanted to know Marsh had screwed her. The idea brought to mind ugly dark thoughts, thoughts he didn’t want to have with Abby in his lap. This was always the weird part of his cop brain, how he could watch dispassionately the terrible things people did to one another, and still go on with his life, untouched.
Mostly.
Some memories lingered unpleasantly, and now Cade found himself wondering what Marshall McMurray looked like. Like the Gary in the driver’s license Abby carried? Her weight across his thighs made him think of other women he’d known, held, slept with. It awoke an unmistakable response, too, his maleness hardening. He hoped she was too wrapped up in her emotional upheaval to notice, but her ass was parked right where it would do the most good. The two things in combination—the thought of Marsh’s violence, and Abby’s heart-shaped ass—warred for his attention.
Cade sat still, willing his erection to subside, moving his palms slowly over Abby’s back, feeling the dampness of her chambray shirt. A mosquito droned near his left ear. When he waved it away, Abby stirred, pushing back from his chest and his embrace.
“God. That’s twice today.” She scrubbed hard at her face with her hands, scooting from his lap and reaching for the paper towels. “You probably think I cry at the drop of a hat.”
He let her go and crossed one leg over the other. She wasn’t likely to notice the bulge in the firelight, but why look like a caveman needlessly? It would only alienate her, and he was discovering he didn’t want to do that.
“So what happens now?” she asked. “You’ve heard my story. And now it’s night.”
“What do you want to happen?”
Abby looked at him suspiciously. “You mean I have choices? Like what? You’re holding all the cards. You haven’t told me what happened to Roy Lewis.”
Cade reached for the beer bottle. “Roy learned his lesson that night, I think. I let him go. His story was good.”
She snuffled hard and blew her nose once more. Damn, she was tough, those gray eyes not letting him off the hook yet, even though she had no leverage. “What about my story?”
“Not nearly as detailed as his, but I guess you had reason for doing what you did.”
“What’s that mean? Are you letting me go?”
“I took the cuffs off you hours ago, Abby.”
“You’ve got a truck and a gun and a mean dog and a badge somewhere. I’d have been stupid to try to get away. How far do you think I’d get?”
“Yeah, that’s right. And why the hell would you want to go back, anyway?”
“There are six people besides Marsh who depend on me going back.” She snuffled again, her voice wavering.
“I’d bet money he’s been on the phone canceling with every single one of them. I know you feel guilty, but to Marsh they’ve never been more than a way of controlling you.”
She stared at him, huddled on the bench not far from him. He could still feel the heat of her leg close to his, smell the yeasty beer on her breath when she spoke. “He might hurt them. Take his anger at me out on them.”
Cade shook his head. “Your day care folks aren’t Marsh’s kind of target. They don’t interest him.
You
interest him. He knows exactly how to push your buttons, get you to do what he wants. It’s how abusers work. With you gone, he won’t bother with them unless he thinks he can use them to get you back.”
“I didn’t even call any of their families—”
“Will you listen to yourself? You committed a felony to get away from him, and now all I get from you is that you think you’d better go back. What part of this doesn’t make sense to
you?
Because it’s clear as day to me. Tell you what, Abigail McMurray. I’m bushed. It’s been a hell of a day, and this headache isn’t gone yet.” He gestured to the lump on the side of his head. “We’re gonna go over there to my truck, roll out the bedroll inside it, and we’re going to sleep. We’ll talk about all this crap in the morning.”
“S-sleep? Here?” There was a long pause, a very long pause, before she said, “We?” in a shaky voice.
He rose, walked across the sandy campsite to the truck and shoved some of the gear to the sides of the bed before unhooking the bungee cord holding the bedroll. “It’s a campground. They don’t mind if people sleep here. Maybe you’ve heard of the idea.”
“I... Look, it’s only an hour or so back to Wildwood. You could just—”
“I could, but I’m not gonna. In the morning, Abby.” The pad unrolled with a soft thump. He reached into a duffel bag and found a flashlight, which he put into her unresisting hand. “I’ll give you five minutes to pee, and then I’m coming after you.”
It took her maybe three minutes at the campground’s pit toilets before he saw the flashlight bobbing back. She stood next to the tailgate, shining the light in at him, examining his face, her own hidden by shadow behind the glare of the flashlight. “No funny stuff? I mean, I know I stole your truck. But that’s no reason for...um.”
“What the hell? No funny stuff. On my honor.” He held up his hand in the Boy Scout’s salute. The flashlight beam played over him, settling at last on his face as she studied him. He tried not to squint in the light. He already looked like hell, scarred and bloody. No need to make it worse by looking suspicious on top of that.
“This is...surreal.”
“Welcome to my day. Climb in. Right side’s yours. We’re closing the hatch to keep the bugs out. I opened the side windows and the top vent because they have screens. It’ll still be too damn hot, but we won’t have the bloodsuckers.”
She handed the flashlight in to him. He watched her as she crept inside on hands and knees, her shirt gaping open, her old, fitted jeans sexier than any short skirt she could have worn.
Hell. What’re you doing, Latimer? Just drive her home, be done with this situation. She’s made her bed with that bastard, let her lie in it. You can’t save her from herself if she’s determined to screw up her life.
But he couldn’t. He’d do his damnedest to save her, even if it was only for a few more hours. He could be the rock that kept her from the hard place.